Jarred
by Felidae1
Summary: When the ramrod exploded and took part of St. Canard Tower with it, what happened in the wee hours of the morning?


Back again with yet another DW story, and once more with some drama. After the events of _Darkly dawns the Duck_ part two, everyone thought Darkwing had died. But what had happened in these fatefull minutes and hours after the explosion? How did Darkwing, Gosalyn and, mostly, Launchpad, make it through these scarring moments? Here is a possible take on one of the untold stories between the twilight and the night.

This story begins on the rooftop of St. Canard Tower, as Darkwing and Taurus Bulba have their heated battle, when the Waddlemeyer Ramroad starts going crazy, overheats and...

Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to Disney, are used without any rights or profits. Go sue someone with money.

Summary: When the ramrod exploded and took part of Tower with it, what happened in the wee hours of the morning?

Ratings: PG

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 _l Fear_

„No!"

The explosion rocked the Thunderquack and made their hearts stop. Hands pressed against the windshield, Gosalyn witnessed the destruction of 's tallest highrise, not wanting to believe her eyes.  
Launchpad gasped; a curt, painful inhale as he realized that their first encounter, their first adventure together, was also the last of his hero. And, as gruesome as it was, what amazing and befitting a sendoff to a paragon of such valor.  
Then realization hit him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat, when he saw something, a glint, a sparkle, die in Gosalyn's eyes.  
They had bonded.  
And if having their idol die in such a horryfying way before their eyes was this scathing for a grown man, how devastating could it be for a little girl?

The heat both numbed him and jerked him awake. Flailing, the shockwave of the detonation hurled him towards the opposite skyscraper, making him hit it none too gently. Desperately he clawed, tore, scratched at whatever surface he could grasp, trying to stop his downward momentum, but everything he touched was too smooth, too even, too-  
The crack, with which his left arm broke when he hit the flagpole, didn't register in his brain, until the pain set in. He screamed and choked, when his tear-proof cape got caught in the wires of the pole, effectively pausing his fall and strangling him. Still, his training and survival instincts kicked in; he grabbed, grasped for he cables, the flag, the pole, anything-  
and smashed through the window three floors down, when the pole's suspension just gave in and crumbled. Plastic, wood, steel and cloth, all bundled and tied and wrapped together, swung in a steep arc towards the building, a terrifyied, confused Darkwing in their center, and hit the glass plane with enough speed and force to shatter it.  
Trying as best as he could to cover himself, the hero couldn't avoid the army of splinters spraying over his face, his body, as he skidded over the carpeted office floor. For a moment, he had to fight nausea, before he realized that he was almost save. He tried to wriggle out of his makeshift straightjacket, but with only one good hand to use, it proved to be a near impossible task to free himself.

Gravity was faster.  
He heard the crickle-crackle of the glass, as the mast began to topple over the edge. Frantically, Darkwing scrambled to free himself, fumbling with the various fabrics and cables, even as he felt the pole move downwards..and then he was back in freefall.  
The uprising wind did, what he hadn't managed; it yanked his cape free and tore the remains of the flag off his body, but the wire around his ankle was tightly strung. Darkwing panicked, trying to get ahold of his cape, knowing full well, despite its sturdy frabrication, it wouldn't support the collective weights of him and the flagpole. Still, it was the slimmest of chances, the only option he had left, unless some miracle happened.

Then the pole caught a set of venetian blinds; the impact slowing it down and flipping it over. Darkwing felt the wire loosen slightly, just enough to bring his foot into reach of his hand so he could fumble for a split-second with it, before the pole changed directions again, pulling at the wire...  
It slipped off, but not without tearing a good part of skin off of Darkwing's shin. The hero howled; the pain was excruciating, but at least now he was free of the extra weight. He fought with his cape, jamming the corner he caught between his teeth, his left arm useless. His right hand dug into the fabric, but he couldn't spread the cape wide enough to actually break his fall. He couldn't direct it either; he was slave to hapazard gliding, like hapless game in the claws of an eagle.  
Sweat covered his entire body, his teeth gnarled under the pressure, but he didn't let go. He glimpsed a dumpster truck ouf of the corner of his eyes and tried to head towards it, but the ground was so, so close..  
It was the phone line which caught him first. Pressing the very air out of his lungs, the cable gave leeway, then catapulted him across the street, where he crashed with devastating force into the concrete; debris, smoke and ashes surrounded, suffocated him, and then his world went black.

 _ll Shock_

She stared.  
She just sat there and stared, as the ER nurse took her stats, bloodpressure, draped a warm blanket over her shoulders and carried her off into the children's ward of St. Canard's municipal hospital.  
Launchpad had flown her in after the explosion, worried sick, when the normally energetic young girl had slumped into her seat and curled up in a ball, after witnessing her- _their_ \- hero end in such a way.  
Gosalyn didn't remember being flown into hospital, or Launchpad just barely crashing the Thunderquack on the parking lot behind the facility. She couldn't recall him talking to her, as he had scooped her up and hurried to the emergeny room, frantically calling out for help.  
Had _he_ told them her name? Had _she_ answered the staff's and doctor's questions? Gosalyn didn't remember, didn't hear or see; inside her mind, she replayed the night's events over and over again, in an endless loop.  
Darkwing Duck was a hero.  
Not just a clown in a costume or an egomaniac with delusions of grandeur, but a true hero.  
And now he was gone.  
Because of her.  
Her lips quivered, moved in silent incantation as she heard his voice in her head, singing her her lullaby, and one by one, tears pearled from her big, green, empty eyes to fall onto the floor and burst into tiny, sparkling splinters of liquid crystal.  
Gosalyn was truly alone.

 _lll Dedication_

He couldn't find him.

He had joined the volunteers who helped dig through the debris and ashes for any surviors, any bodies, anything, in order to find him.  
Until now, his struggle proved futile.  
Launchpad sighed, then coughed; the dust and pulverized concrete floating up from the ground and saturating the air irritating his throat. He wheezed, until his lungs had worked out most of the grime, then continued his gruesome task.  
Hours. He had spent hours on this site; first aflight, then on foot, then crawling and crouching and searching and looking and digging, but to no avail.  
Not to be misunderstood; he had saved a dog, some cats, two kids and even an elderly lady from under the rubble, but so far, no Darkwing.  
Still, he kept on looking, searching, hoping, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would never forgive himself, if he gave up on the vigilante.  
A soot-covered glove wiped the sweat from his brow; the sun had reached its pinnacle and shone down, casting its unforgiving light on the ruins of what once used to be St. Canard's greatest pride.  
A sharp whistle, as the team leader gave the signal to move another tree feet forward, and Launchpad rose, his legs and ankles numb as his neck, the now glocous pollution mask hindering his breathing. Tearing it off, Launchpad tilted his head back, stretched, moved one step forward-

He almost missed it.

It was a mere flutter of white, a glimpse of purple in the distance, but once he caught it, Launchpad took a flying leap at the spot. He drove his hands in, pulling, tearing, lifting, working faster as sweat dripped from his forehead onto his beak, running down his temples, collecting in his neck; one work glove caught a wry piece of metal, got stuck, but instead of pulling it free, he tore it off and continued barehanded; fingers, nails soon cracked and dirty and bloodied, but he still kept digging.  
His knees were creaking, his back and shoulders were protesting, as he pushed a concave boulder out of the way...  
Darkwing lay there, right arm at an odd angle, left arm still buried under the debris. His hat, crampled and crinkled and rumpled, lay a few feet from his head. His right leg was invisible beneath the rubble, his left one broken and twisted to the outside. Half his mask was torn off, revealing his face; his pale, battered, bruised face beneath.  
Launchpad's heart skipped a beat, stopped, then hammered erratically in his chest.  
„DW! DW! Come on, wake up, ol' buddy, wake up! Can you hear me? You gotta hear me, you just have to!"  
Panicked, the pilot continued unearthing his fallen comrade, again and again calling, talking, begging him to regain conciousness. He didn't feel the sweat, the pain in his hands, the dust in his lungs and eyes; all he knew was Darking Duck lying there in front of him, perfectly still, perfectly quiet...  
A horrifying thought struck Launchpad. Leaning forward, he pressed his ear on the Masked Mallard's chest and listened. And listened. And listened...

„She still hasn't come around", the doctor stated to the nurse. Who shook her head and sighed.  
„Then again, wo can blame her? Being this close to the explosion..it's a miracle she got away without a scratch. As for her mental condition.." she sighed anew. The doctor frowned.  
„Yes, the man who brought her in, said, she had to watch her best friend being blown up by the explosion."  
She took a deep breath, her glasses off and wiped them clean.  
„Anyways, see that she's monitored closely. This kind of shock tends to have rather nasty aftereffects. Now, if you'll excuse me," she put her glasses back on, „I'm needed in the morgue."  
The nurse thought hat she caught just the smallest of flinches from the redhaired girl.

 _lV Secrecy_

Seven floors down, in the waiting hall of the ICU, Launchpad was pacing.  
He had been doing so several hours; back and forth, back and forth.  
The again, it was not as if anyone would have noticed, despite the place being suffocatingly crowded. Everybody present was in the same state of despair, anxiousness, impatience, weariness, exhaustion and fear; hoping for the best and bracing for the worst.  
„Mr McQuack?" Launchpad swerved around with a little too much force, his tired legs not quite able to follow the movement, causing him to tilt over and almost fall. Catching himself at the last moment, the pilot asked,  
„Yes?"  
The surgeon studied him worriedly, then mumbled,  
„Let us walk a few steps."  
Launchpad almost stated that he had been doing nothing else since he arrived, but opted on biting his tongue. Once they made it to the somewhat privacy of the elevator hall, the surgeon turned to face him.  
„I understand, it was you who brought this particular patient in?" Launchpad nodded.  
„Yeah, I guess, I didn't want to wait for the ambulance, I mean, he was in such a bad condition, and- I guess I just freaked out, and- and-" he stuttered.  
The doctor placed one soothing hand on the distraught pilot's arm.  
„You most likely saved his live. There is no way the paramedics could have made it in time." Launchpad was floored, then relieved. Then he saw the frown.  
„Even as it is, it is pretty touch and go. And you say, no one reported him as missing?"  
Lauchpad shook his head.  
„No, but the police is up to their neck in missing cases, so until they call, I don't even now is name." This time, the doctor showed just a hint of smugness.  
„Well, I guess we can help with that. Medical records stated him as a certain Mallard, Drake Mallard. It took us a while, but eventually we managed to dig up his file. Does the name ring a bell?"  
Again, Launchpad denied, his stomach doing flip-flops at the revelation.

When he had found him, Darkwing had almost been gone. It was but the faintest of heartbeats that had rekindled Launchpad's hope, and he had known that he had to take measures, before the other volunteers realized, what was going on.  
He had stripped Darkwing down to his underwear, ripped his jacket to shreds, torn his pullover into strips, with which he had tried to dress the wounds and buried his hat and cape as far away fom the lifeless body as possible, without rising suspicion. Only then had he dared to reach for the vigilante's mask and gently, ever so gently, with trembling hands, had he removed the remainder of the cloth.  
The face underneath had been..handsome, even goodlooking, had there not been the extensive damage. Lunchpad had felt, as if he were looking at a puzzle; a deformed, ill-mended puzzle, and gulped.  
Then he had heard the rasp.  
And the cough.  
And then...nothing.  
And then he had administered CPR, finally, almost too late, yelling, screaming for help, aiding the paramedics in placing Darkwing in the ambulance and insisting on driving with them, all the way to the hospital holding the fallen hero's hand, as if his own life depended on it.

Drake Mallard. That was his hero's nom de plume.  
For a moment, he felt priviledged to know Darkwing's secret identity. Until the surgeon continued,  
„Yet, we could not find any phone number or address. Nothing but a P.O. box." Launchpad's brain worked overtime for an explanation, but all he could offer was,  
„Maybe he just moved into town and didn't yet have time to look for an appartment? I mean, the St. Canard Inn is just opposite the St. Canard Tower. Or was", he added more quietly. Again, the surgeon regarded him sceptical, but decided to drop the subject.  
„Either way, seeing as there are no relatives or even coworkers to be found- yet," he glanced at Launchpad, who winced,  
„I will make an exception for this once. I can't give you any exact details, since you're not family, but I want you to know, that it doesn't look good. As in at all."  
He held Launchpad's gaze, who had forgotten how to breathe.  
„Mr Mallard died. Twice. He did come around, but he is hanging onto the proverbial thread, even as we speak. I thought, you would like to know, rather than get your hopes too high. At the moment...anything might happen. As it is, we put him in an artificial coma, but his chances..."  
He huffed.  
„I figured, it would be best for you to know. In case you might come across his family or friends."  
Launchpad nodded and mumbled a silent gratitude, but his mind was whirling. Giving him a concerned look, the doctor offered,  
„We have counselours in attendance, if you would like to.."  
The pilot shook his head.  
„No, no, I'll just..sit here and wait."  
Eyes, brown and gold and troubled and tired watched the bulky form pad over to the seats in the waiting area, grab one of the worn-out blankets the hospital had provided for the assembled, and settle into a waiting slouch.

It would prove to be Launchpad McQuack's longest night.

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 _I decided to end it here. Perhaps I might return to it one day, to add more content, but for me, as it is, it's perfectly fine. Why? Because I still have 20+ more to go, but also because we know how the story ended. Actually, junks and pieces of this story had been written and finished, but I couldn't make them connect in a fitting story. And then along came Ma- erm, SplatterPhoenix with her marvelous art, and these bursts of inspiration her pictures, namely Shattered and Found, helped me finish this ficlet._

 _So, read, review and give my regards to SplatterPhoenix for time and time again tickling my muses into attendance._

 _Felidae_

 _Go check out SplatterPhoenix' art: splatterphoenix. deviantart art/Inktober-XII-Shattered -709423440_

 _splatterphoenix. deviantart art/Inktober-XXX-Found -712492768_


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